Brains Ticking Round
by bikelock28
Summary: The Doctor and Martha's thoughts as they're in bed in the middle of The Shakespreare Code. Sort-of missing moment. "There's got to be a reason a man just can't die with no explanation," thought the Doctor, "It's the witches. But what witches? Which witches? Rose would know, he thought again, Rose would tell me what it is,"


**I don't own anything Doctor Who!**

Brains Ticking Round

"Ah, never mind take you home in the morning," said the Doctor, rolling onto his back.

"Fine!" snapped Martha, stung, as she blew out the candle on the bedside table.

What's he on about, she thought, Rose? Who was she? Why did the Doctor change the subject whenever she was mentioned? Why did he gloss over her, as if there was something he wasn't telling Martha? He'd said she was with her family, but where was she? _When_ was she? Martha still couldn't quite believe that she was back in time. In Tudor London! With Shakespeare! Shakespeare, whose work she had studied at school, whose plays her uncles had taken her to see when she was younger, who had been in front of her, calling her a Queen of Afric, asking about the land of Freedonia, the Doctor's split-second invention.

Ah, the Doctor. Maths had only known him a couple of hours- or minus four hundred years (what time was she on anyway? She didn't really feel tired, yet she was in bed supposed to be sleeping. Martha supposed that this was on extreme case of jet lag) - and yet, she felt she had known him for ages. He certainly acted as if it was that way. There was something about him though, like the mysterious Rose he kept mentioning, that didn't add up. Something… he wasn't telling her, something about the way he had been hesitant to mention his own race, his own people. Martha was still finding it hard to get her heard around the fact that he was an alien. Hang on, she thought, I'm sharing a bed with an alien! The Doctor certainly hadn't seemed to find this a problem, he had sounded like he did this all the time. Which, Martha reflected, for all she knew, he might. There was definitely something strange about him- and not just that he had two hearts. Shakespeare had noticed it too. Martha shifted slightly and turned her head to look at him. He was lying with his hands behind his head, his eyes fixed upon a point on the ceiling. They were concentrated and unmoving. He was deep in thought, she could tell. But just what his thoughts were, were anyone's guess…

* * *

There's got to be a reason, thought the Doctor, a man just can't die with no explanation. It's the witches. But what witches? Which witches? Rose would know, he thought again, Rose would tell me what it is.

_But Rose isn't here, is she? _argued a voice in his head, _Rose is gone, and you're not going to be able to see her again._

I know, thought the Doctor, pain prickling inside him, but knowing don't make it any easier does it? Knowing doesn't stop me hurting.

Calm down, he told himself gently, just calm down and think logically. Shakespeare. The greatest playwright of all time. Witches. Witchcraft. Magic. There was a connection; it was right in front of him, right there, dancing on the end of his nose. He just couldn't quite grasp it…

And then there was the Plasphamorph. That had been a funny thing. He hadn't seen one of those for donkey's years. And another run-in with the Judoon- the Doctor scowled, he'd never liked them, small brains and big guns, and that was not a good combination as far as he was concerned. He wondered what would have happened if Martha hadn't been able to revive him. He'd would have come round in a minute on his own if they had been on Earth, but with the low oxygen levels on the moon it would have taken longer and the humans would have been dead by the time he'd revived. Good job he'd thought to take a doctor with him, he thought. Martha Jones. She was clever. She was brave. She was sparky. He liked her. He liked her a lot. He'd said one trip… but now it had escalated. Things did often seem to escalate with him. But he needed a friend. Deep down, however much he said he preferred to travel alone, however many times he told himself that it was dangerous, however much he knew that it would only put his companion in peril and harm, and him in pain and misery, when, for whatever reason, as they always did, his companion would have to leave him, he knew he needed someone. A friend. An accomplice. As Donna had said someone to stop him. And maybe, just maybe, that someone was Martha Jones…

**Thanks for reading! Please review, I'd really appreciate it.**


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